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“What good would that do?” I point out. “You can’t risk being seen. All you’ll do is get yourself killed, again, for real this time.”
“I won’t be seen.” She’s using her overly patient tone again. “But that way I’ll be close enough to help you get back to the palace, if…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t need to because we both know what kind of state I might be in if and when Madame chooses to release me. I turn to face her, and she helps me slip Remy’s shirt over my head.
I hold my breath, refusing to inhale his familiar scent when I already feel more fragile than I have a right to.
Once the fabric settles around me, Zaina leans in, a hand on my uninjured cheek. “Just promise me.”
I reach up to place my hand over hers, and I consider our relationship. How we never got the chance to be close, to be honest. To be real sisters. That’s not who we are, not who Madame raised us to be.
Maybe someday that can change.
But for now, I squeeze her hand gently, look into her golden eyes, and lie with every last shred of skill in my arsenal.
“Okay. I promise.”
She studies my face before nodding.
“All right. We can talk more when you’re feeling better, then.” She drops her hand, and my face feels colder without its weight. Like all the lies and half-truths between us are already seeping in where her comfort used to be.
But it’s probably for the best because tomorrow, I’ll face Madame the way I always have, by choice or by circumstance.
Alone.
CHAPTERSEVEN
ZAINA
Einar is waiting for me when I slip back onto our balcony. For all that he tries to trust me, his relief that I’ve returned unharmed is palpable.
He slips an arm around me to remove my cloak, but doesn’t say anything. It’s one of the things I have grown to appreciate most about him. He doesn’t feel the need to fill silences with unnecessary chatter, doesn’t interrupt my thoughts when he can see how badly I need to be alone with them.
Khijhana butts her enormous head against my arm, affording me no such courtesy.
“I’m all right, Khijha,” I tell her.
Though I’m not sure how true it is when my sister’s blood is still caked underneath my fingernails, when I suspect that those injuries will look like nothing compared to what Madame will do to her when she returns.
Even after everything I’ve done to protect her, it’s not enough. It’s never enough where Madame is concerned.
Aika seems to think she can lie her way out of a more severe punishment, but even she has her limits. Not that she’ll ever acknowledge a single sands-damned one of them.
“I ran us a bath,” Einar’s voice rumbles from his chest to my back, and I lean against him.
“Youran us a bath?” I ask skeptically.
He is perfectly capable of turning the taps, but the more labor intensive part of lighting the coals underneath the tub seems unlikely. Jokith is far more advanced than Corentin that way. I often find myself missing the steaming water that would rain down upon us with the turn of a handle.
“Well, Gunnar helped,” he admits, running his hands down my arms, infusing me with his unending warmth.
“Ah, indeed.” I smirk. That makes more sense.
“Do you want to tell me how it went?” he asks, gently tugging my hand to lead me to the bathing chamber.
I slip my gown off in a series of fluid motions while he removes his tunic and leggings. Before I answer him, I take a moment to admire the alabaster ridges of the muscles he’s exposed, letting my eyes trail from the perfect V low on his abdomen, up to his broad shoulders, his square jaw, and his unnaturally handsome, unlined face.
Aika’s taunting about his age returns to mind, and I bite back a smile. Even his silver-blond braids are clearly that color by birth, not from the years.
